


Sweet Heart

by seagog



Category: Original Work
Genre: Magical Realism, Original Character(s), Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 18:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18628618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seagog/pseuds/seagog
Summary: When Deirdre Miller is a girl, her parents take her to see the circus. It's something she doesn't forget.





	Sweet Heart

**Author's Note:**

> this story is set sometime in the 1960s (though you know I don't give a damn about historical accuracy.)

Viola Miller bore little resemblance to the plump, rosy-cheeked grandmothers of storybooks and Christmas cards. She was a large woman with skin that hung off her hunched bones like drapery, and she had a smile that looked cruel on the best of days. Her pale eyes were so deep-set they seemed to be on the verge of collapse, yet anyone who met her gaze knew they were as piercing as meat hooks.

Viola scared the neighborhood children and disturbed their parents. Even her own son, Graham, treated her with a stiff and unfamiliar decorum. Graham’s sole concession to filial piety had been allowing Viola to move in with him after she became too feeble to care for herself. The rest of the time, he either tolerated or ignored her presence. Only Viola’s granddaughter, Deirdre Miller, seemed capable of loving the old woman with the entirety of her heart. Deirdre, a wisp of a girl with sunny hair and powder-pink cheeks, clung to her grandma’s swelling white arms with the devotion of a kicked dog that had only ever been shown a single kindness. At seven months, she had gurgled her first word, “ _nana_ ,” and from then on, the whole being of Viola Miller could be summed up in those two syllables.

The Millers lived in the type of mind-numbingly rich neighborhood where the only remaining commodity of value was gossip. Yes, there was something rotten about the old woman on Abbott Street, that much had been decided on. It was just a pity, a damn shame, that the little girl had latched on to her so fast. _Her parents ought to do something about that_ , said the prim housewives and their clean-cut husbands. _If they’re not careful, that girl will turn out just like her grandmother._ If Deirdre had not been quite so pretty, then it wouldn’t have been so urgent. But she was, and that made all the difference.

Some years later, Deirdre had grown to be a curious girl, and her eyes had taken to darting everywhere at once, trying to consume all the colors and textures of the world around her. Nevertheless, she was still blithely unaware of the whispers that trailed behind her. The fears of the neighbors had not come to fruition. She’d become a sweet and tame girl who could be spotted holding onto her mother’s hand at dinner parties and barbecues, rarely darting away to play with the other children. When she was at home, however, Deirdre could never fall asleep without Nana reading her a bedtime story. Nana’s stories were so unlike her mother’s, who liked to read her books about princesses locked in towers and the princes who came to their rescue. No, Nana spoke about real life, telling Deirdre about the women who had come before her in the Miller bloodline, women who had been so feared that they had been rounded up and buried alive.

“Were they bad?” Deirdre asked once while tucked in bed.

“No, honey,” Nana said, combing her fingers through Deirdre’s hair. “Just unique. That means other people were scared of them.” Her voice was thick and croaky, and it lulled Deirdre to sleep faster than any lullaby. In the mornings, Nana would wake her up and get her dressed, and in the afternoons, the two of them would go for a walk around the neighborhood, Deirdre skipping ahead and pointing out the shapes of clouds, Nana plodding behind.

Yet for all of Deirdre’s love, by the time she was old enough to attend school, Nana no longer left the house all. The old woman had grown even heavier, and she swore up and down she could hear her joints creak when she rose out of her dusty old loveseat. For Deirdre’s tenth birthday, her parents planned a weekend excursion to the circus, and it came as no surprise when Nana refused to come along. Mr. and Mrs. Miller accepted this without a moment’s hesitation. Deirdre, on the other hand, vowed to abstain from fun for the duration of the trip. If Nana wasn’t going to be there, she wouldn’t so much as crack a smile.

“Brighten up, Deirdre,” snapped Mr. Miller after a bouquet of candy floss and a striped bag of popcorn had failed to cheer up. “It’s your _birthday_.”

Mrs. Miller glared at him and stroked Deirdre’s hair. “Oh, Dee, it’s alright,” she said. “Let’s go see the elephants, why don’t we?”

If there was any part of Deirdre that was excited to see the elephants, she suppressed it with a quick and ruthless effort. She watched with mute indifference as the grey behemoths balanced on pedestals and rose up on their trunk-like hind legs, one by one, leaning on each other’s broad wrinkled backs. After a while, it hurt to look at them, but she didn’t have the words to explain why.

Deirdre’s father had all but given up hope, but her mother insisted they go see the last act of the night. The trio located the small red tent on the outskirts of the carnival and pushed through the curtains that shielded the entrance. Instantly the chatter of noisy children and the smell of frying grease were extinguished from the air. The tent was intimate and dark, lit only by dim yellow bulbs strung about the low ceiling, and it had a heady atmosphere fragranced with spices and burning incense. Deirdre forgot she supposed to be upset and inhaled with fervor. It was intoxicating, not at all like her mother’s perfumes or her father’s colognes.

The family took a seat near the back and squinted at the stage. Music began playing—a strange and rich melody, one that made Deirdre see purple shadows where there were none. A light shone on the stage. As if emerging from dark waters, a woman stepped out from behind a curtain and moved into the warm circle of light. She had black hair and blacker eyes, and she wore clothes like none Deirdre had ever seen: a blue shirt that ended just below her breasts, and a long beaded skirt that reflected the light and threw it back into the crowd like bunches of flowers. Her stomach on full display, the woman began to move in a liquid fashion, her hips tracing a slow figure-eight, her abdomen flexing to show glimpses of the strong muscle under her pale flesh. Deirdre’s world blackened and narrowed until all she saw was the dancer. The music was now swilling around inside her head and dripping into her eyes like dark syrup, making her see wild things: visions of tongues stained red, jealous misers presiding over gold chalices and glittering rubies, twenty-foot long snakes coiling around helpless men, crushing their bodies of wet clay and bones of plaster.

When the music ended and the woman dipped into a low, sensuous bow, the applause came in muted waves, and only then did Deirdre remember to breathe. The phantom taste of syrup was still thick in the back of her throat, but the spell had been broken, and the last of the magic evaporated as the woman ducked behind the curtain.

Deirdre did not resist when her mother took her hand and guided her out of the tent. Night had fallen, and the cool air was a shock against her flushed cheeks, but Deirdre could not find the willpower to pull her coat tighter around her body. She could barely remember any of the day’s events; indeed, her recollection of the entire week had receded to leave only one gleaming red shard of memory. If only the girl had known how long that shard would reside within her, perhaps she would have shrieked right then and brought her hands to her head, digging into her skull to uproot the criminal moment.

But there was no such revelation, and Deirdre went home with only a vague sense of foreboding nestled deep within her stomach, where it could be mistaken for hunger.

 In the coming years, Mr. and Mrs. Miller would look back and try to pinpoint the exact incident that had transformed their pink-cheeked little girl into a painfully anemic teenager. Was it the bout of pneumonia she had suffered when she was eleven, the one that left her bedridden for two weeks? Had they made a mistake in drawing the blinds shut to shield her from the sun’s glare, unknowingly sapping the vigor from her blood for years to come? Was it the time she had fallen and broken her left leg, leaving her in crutches for nearly an entire summer? Above all, they suspected it was something Nana had done, though the idea was so unsettling and terrible that neither of them dared give voice to it. In all their quiet thoughts and drawn-out arguments, however, neither parent ever recalled the fateful night at the circus.

At fifteen, Deirdre had grown taller than all the girls and some of the boys in her grade. Her willowy height invited the disapproval of the wives and husbands; _it’s unfortunate for a girl to be so tall_ , they agreed. _And how strange is it that she’s closer to that old crone than to her own mother? We’ll see how she does at the ball._ Like most things in Deirdre’s life, the debutante ball was a relic, but the wives and husbands loved their relics more than they loved themselves, and _that_ was saying something. Through the sheer willpower of rigid tradition, it had become the biggest event in town, a chance for every girl to make her grand entrance into high society—but Deirdre couldn’t bring herself to care about impressing anyone. She was not as oblivious as she had once been. She knew how the neighbors spoke about her family. It wasn’t for a lack of trying; Mr. and Mrs. Miller were, on the surface, one of the most respectable couples on the block. They had a manicured lawn, a car that was just expensive enough to be obscene, and a well-furnished dining room where they held the requisite dinner parties. The only hair out of the place was Nana. Through the living room window, the neighbors could see her hunched figure as she dozed off in the loveseat, a skein of raggedy gray hair hanging over her face. Every couple minutes or so, her head would lurch back and her crusted-over eyelids would part to reveal pale, birdlike irises, icy enough to make any onlooker turn away.

Deirdre could also be spotted from outside the house. She had taken to perching on the windowsill of her second-floor bedroom, head turned out to the backyard, the sunlight painting her face a peachy yellow. Those who saw her had the impression that Deirdre would look just as comfortable perching from the highest branch of a tree in the woods, eyes tracking for any sign of movement in the foliage down below. For a little while, she could forget about the shard in her brain, the diamond clarity of it, how it took her clouded thoughts and desires and pierced through them with its sharp red tip. She could stay in the same position for hours at a time, eschewing her lunch and dinner in favor of the modest view of the garden. Still, it was far from a lasting comfort. Once she slipped off the windowsill, the shard would crystallize again. As soon as her feet touched the ground, the warmth would drain away from her features and her lips would narrow into a hard line.

“She’s just in a mood,” Mr. Miller said to his wife over his chicken casserole. “She’s fifteen years old, for Christ’s sake. Leave it be.”

“When is she not in a mood, Graham? I’m tired of this. We’re her parents. _I’m_ not going to sit by and do nothing. But you won’t even agree to give Dr. Aaronson a call.”

“You’re overreacting,” he said, stabbing a lump of casserole. “Don’t be so goddamned dramatic, Beth. And Aaronson’s a hack. Hell, get me one of those lounge chairs and I’ll start charging those bleeding hearts forty bucks an hour—”

Mrs. Miller clenched her fingers tighter around the stem of her wine glass. “I was a teenage girl once too, you know. And _I_ certainly wasn’t as—as _disagreeable_ as Deirdre insists on being. It’s… I’m saying… Maybe it’s… an adverse environment _._ An external influence.”

“You pick that up from Aaronson?”

“You know I’m right about this.”

“Just say it, Beth.”

“Alright, Graham, you really want to talk about the problem?” she said. “The problem is that old bitch in the living room! I wouldn’t trust her with my purse, much less my _daughter_. And you’ve got her here, you’ve got her hanging around all day in that loveseat, breathing down Deirdre’s neck! I want her out, Graham. I want it now.”

The argument descended into one they’d had many times before and would have had many times again, if not for the old bitch in the living room lurching her head back one last time and releasing all the life from her wizened body in one shuddering breath.

Upstairs, Deirdre tumbled down from her precarious perch on the windowsill, her hands clutching at her scalp. _Nana’s dead_. The shard was driving itself down, down, down into the marshy surface of her brain, drenching her sight in a gushing red deluge. Pain blossomed from the core and streaked outwards. She opened her mouth, but no sound would come out.

The deluge did not pass until the sun had dipped below the trimmed hedges. Deirdre awoke with pain still needling at her mind, her knees feeling sore where they had struck the ground. She was in bed. There was a pillow below her head and a blanket drawn up to her neck. She hadn’t been tucked in this way since she was a girl.

Her mother was standing in the doorway, and Deirdre could tell she’d been practicing her expression, training her features to show worry instead of relief. “It’s okay, sweetie,” Mrs. Miller cooed. “Go back to sleep. You need your rest.”

Deirdre listened.

The funeral was quick and tidy. Mrs. Miller set a table with an appropriately somber cheese plate and a bottle of bitter wine. The coffin was a glossy cherrywood and gave no indication of the woman entombed within it. The wives and husbands gathered around and dabbed at their faces with embroidered handkerchiefs, all thinking the same thing:

If the Millers had prayed for a miracle, they’d been granted it.

The funeral was soon forgotten in favor of the upcoming debutante ball. Over the span of a week, Mrs. Miller worked herself into a frenzy, pulling open the closet doors every morning to check for any loose thread in Deirdre’s gown. Everything had to be white: the satin gloves, the strappy heels, the pair of pearl earrings she was lending to her daughter for the special occasion. Deirdre was more agreeable than she had been in years. She nodded vacantly when Mrs. Miller suggested that she try on a different pair of shoes or sit in with the hairstylist to make sure her updo would be just right.

At last the night arrived. After four hours of being plucked and prodded and fussed over, Deirdre emerged from the house as a fluttering dove. Clad in all white, she was the first snow of winter, pristine and proper as her mother before her. Her gown was fitted to her narrow frame with a cinched waist and a bodice that covered the razor jut of her collarbone, softening her appearance. Gabriele, the stylist, had spent an hour working Deirdre’s limp hair into a bouquet of fairytale spirals and another painting her face to perfection, reddening her lips and darkening her eyes. A pair of heels were just enough to lengthen her legs without making her the least bit intimidating. She looked older but angelic, the very picture of ladylike grace; harmless.

Gabriele handed her a small mirror. She held it inches from her face and tilted it from side to side, studying her artificially thick lashes and blushing cheeks. Her stomach twisted. It was not an entirely unpleasant feeling. There was a familiar pain blossoming in the back of her head, but this time its effect on her was different. It was a welcome pain, one that she could lean into, akin to the ache of sore feet after walking a long trail.

Soon she was at the entrance of the ballroom. The sensation grew stronger as her parents ushered her inside. The domed ceiling was painted blue and splashed with pink-tinged clouds, and now and then one of the debutantes would crane her neck up to stare at it. The room smelled rich. Everywhere was the light, playful scent of champagne, expensive perfume, and the jasmine and honeysuckle that was wafting in from the gardens outside. Boys fiddled with their cufflinks and tried to blend into the congregations of girls. It was everything Deirdre’s mother had dreamed it would be.

Deirdre breezed through the crowd without any idea of which direction she was heading. The pain had morphed into pressure, and the pressure was a thread that she could follow, a beat in her head that urged her forwards. _Chase the thread. Find where it ends._ It came in waves, thickening and thinning like the hot blood pumping through her arteries. It was so easy. _Like music. Like the sway of a dancer’s hips._ The dancer materialized before her, looking just like she had that night, a vision of tiger eyes and satin skin. For one lopsided moment, she was Nana, but then she smiled her wretched smile and the illusion vanished.

All at once, Deirdre stopped. There was a boy standing in front of her, talking with a woman who looked to be his mother. He was about her age, and as he brought a flute of champagne to his lips, Deirdre could see the man that he would grow into with alarming clarity. She could see the bones of his face fossilizing into stone and the warm edge to his voice freezing over. She could see the disdain that he would carry in his eyes one day. The beat in her head was overpowering now, and she could hardly hear over the rush of blood in her ears. Deirdre could only feel her mouth move when she asked him, “Dance with me.”

If the boy was surprised, he did well to hide it. Deirdre grasped his hand, his palm almost as warm as hers, and pulled him to a discreet door leading out to the gardens. Before he could protest, she yanked him over the threshold and shut the door behind them. They were alone, and her breath was quickening. She wondered how she looked from his perspective.

“You’re pretty,” he told her, not daring to smile.

The red shard in her brain burst into five thousand pieces, and Deirdre came alive.

Lunging forward, Deirdre latched her mouth onto his neck and bit down with all the force she could muster. The boy tried to jerk away. With a gargantuan effort, she held him in place. Blood welled onto her tongue, luscious and coppery, and Deirdre saw stars; a strange new strength flooded through her body, making the boy’s struggles little more than those of an ant pushing back against the sole of a boot. Like a reflex, her teeth sank down even farther, and the blood gushed out now in a robust stream, hitting her palate and spilling down her throat. The thrum inside her head sought out the hummingbird beat behind his sternum, and the two meshed together, becoming one red, glorious, living thing. Deirdre tossed her head back, chin dripping, and sensed the thread weaving between his ribs. He had stopped fighting. She surged on, biting, tearing, chewing, swallowing, not satisfied until she had exposed his frantic, fluttering core. Her stomach full and her lips swollen, Deirdre Miller reached down to pluck the quivering heart from the crater in his chest, and with one gulp, she swallowed the wretched thing whole.


End file.
